Page 86 of The Bane of a Sinner
I chuckled, the sound a little rough in the quiet of the night. “I guess you’re right. I always did prefer practicality over adventure.” I gestured toward the gleaming sedan parked a few spots away. “This city demands practicality, I suppose. But a ride on my bike... that’s a different kind of proposition.” The harbor breeze tugged at my shirt, a familiar cool against my skin, and Ilooked back at the rows of bikes, a silent testament to a life lived a little differently.
Diana’s smile widened, a playful glint in her eyes. She walked over to a particularly sleek, black motorcycle, running a hand over its fuel tank. “Practicality has its place, August. But there’s a thrill in the unexpected, wouldn’t you say?” She looked at me expectantly, her hand still resting on the cool metal. The sound of the harbor seemed to amplify, a low rumble mirroring the growing anticipation in my chest.
“You might be right about that,” I conceded, my gaze drifting from the bike to her face, illuminated by the faint glow of the distant city lights. “The car will still be there tomorrow. But this?” I patted the handlebars of my own bike, a vintage machine with a story etched into every curve. “This is a chance to make a new memory.”
Diana’s fingers traced the curve of the handlebars, a silent question hanging in the air between us. The city’s hum, usually a comforting thrum of life, felt amplified tonight, a soundtrack to this unexpected turn. I watched her, the faint city light catching the curve of her cheek, and a familiar warmth spread through me, a stark contrast to the cool night air. Twenty years, and she still had this power, this ability to pull me from the predictable path.
“Alright,” I said, a grin finally breaking through my reserve. “But promise me you’ll hold on tight. This old girl’s got a bit of a kick.” I swung my leg over the saddle, the worn leather a familiar comfort. The engine coughed to life, a deep, resonant growl that vibrated through the metal and into my bones, a sound that always promised more than just transportation.
She settled behind me, her arms wrapping around my waist, her breath a warm puff against my back. The harbor breeze, no longer just a cooling presence, now whipped around us as I nudged the throttle. The city lights, stretching out like a jeweledtapestry, blurred into streaks as we merged with the night, the familiar roar of the engine drowning out even the persistent churn of the harbor water, carrying us towards an adventure I hadn’t realized I was craving.
The city unfurled before us, a glittering panorama of dreams and ambitions, each light a tiny beacon in the vast, dark canvas. Diana’s grip tightened as we navigated the pulsing veins of Manhattan, the familiar rumble of the engine a steady reassurance against the urban cacophony. We dipped and swerved, a dance with gravity and asphalt, the wind an invisible partner in our exhilaration. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of twenty years, of unpredictable paths and quiet resentful resignation, began to lift, replaced by the intoxicating freedom of the open road.
We found ourselves on a less-traveled street, the imposing silhouette of the Brooklyn Bridge looming ahead—a skeletal marvel against the starry sky. I slowed, pulling over to the side of the road, the engine idling softly. Diana leaned forward, her voice a whisper against the night. “It’s beautiful, August. Really beautiful.”
I turned, catching her profile in the dim light, and saw a reflection of my own rekindled spirit in her eyes. This wasn’t just a ride; it was a rediscovery, a shared moment suspended in time, a quiet rebellion against time and space that threatened to keep us apart.
“It is,” I agreed, my voice raspy with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. “And the best part is, there’s still so much more to see.” I felt her smile against my back, a warm, unspoken confirmation. As I twisted the throttle again, we moved towards the bridge, two specks of defiance against the immensity of the city, ready to chase the horizon together, the harbor’s song fading into the exhilarating thrum of our shared adventure.
A few hours later, I pulled up in front of a familiar brownstone I hadn’t visited in years. Twenty years ago, this building was nothing more than a stopping point for interns and residents. Filled with small two-bedroom apartments, it now sat empty, waiting for life to return to it.
Turning off my engine, I looked at the building and sighed as her arms tightened around my waist.
“You still live here?”
“No. No one does,” I said, giving her my hand so she could get off my bike. “After you left, I stayed for a while, but when you disappeared, I didn’t have the courage to walk in there anymore. So, I left.”
“Then why are we here?”
Throwing my leg over my bike, I stretched my back as I looked up at the building and said, “I want to show you something.”
Taking her hand, I led her toward the door. Reaching for a key I hadn’t used in years, I opened the front door, and she walked inside. Hand in hand, we walked up the steps, and a familiar feeling washed over me, almost as if we’d been doing this for years. It was a strange feeling, almost as if I were walking back in time, being given a second chance.
Opening the door at the end of the hall, I said nothing as she walked in and gasped, her hand going to her mouth. “Everything is still the same.”
“I didn’t have the heart to change anything. Everything is as you left it the last time you were here.”
“I don’t understand. You said no one lived here.”
“No one does. I bought the building.”
“The whole building?”
“All three floors and the basement. I was thinking of hiring an architect to convert it into a home. A proper home, since it’s so close to the hospital. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Why not?”
“Not sure you’d want to live here after everything that’s happened.”
Diana’s breath hitched, her eyes wide as she swept across the meticulously preserved living room. The worn armchair still bore the faint imprint of her favorite reading spot. The small, chipped ceramic bird Barbara had given her from a weekend trip to Woodstock sat on the mantelpiece, a silent sentinel. A framed photograph on the side table captured a younger, carefree version of both of us, laughing on a pier, the harbor a hazy backdrop. It was a time capsule, a testament to a life paused, waiting for her return.
My stomach tightened.
Had I been clinging to a ghost, or was this a foundation for something new?
I watched her trace the rim of a teacup, her fingers brushing against the familiar pattern. “August,” she whispered, her voice thick with a mix of disbelief and a tenderness that echoed my own long-held feelings. “You... you kept it all.”
Her statement hung in the air, heavy with unspoken years and the weight of what could have been. I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t just everything here I’d kept, but that I’d also held onto hope, the faint ember that had been fanned into a hesitant flame by her presence tonight.
